


Of Lost Things

by silenceofthesea



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Tom Paris is a hero
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 01:44:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silenceofthesea/pseuds/silenceofthesea
Summary: Set in the immediate aftermath of Voyager's return to Earth. Tom discovers why not every story can have a fairytale ending





	Of Lost Things

**Author's Note:**

> "I've survived a lot and I'll probably survive this." - JD Salinger

They are a throng or at the very least a large gaggle. One hundred or so people, with more arriving by the minute. Liberated from the official ceremony less than two hours ago, tonight’s private gathering is an opportunity to celebrate their return with those who matter. Couples reunited embrace tightly in quiet corners, fingers running through tumbling tresses, lips finding the soft familiar once again. Mothers, fathers, sons and daughters reconnect with those thought lost, while groups of friends and colleagues talk animatedly, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. Tears of joy, relief, elation and more are freed, alongside those of pain and grief, but tonight happiness triumphs over sadness.

The ballroom is hot, noisy and vibrant and fresh from a peaceful afternoon spent gazing at his newborn, it takes Tom a moment to adjust to the powerful tides of emotion lapping the space. A figure rushes past him, throwing herself forward. Ensign Kaplan's family all but scoop her from the floor.

Harry is by a large, bay window, his mother stroking his hair, despite his half-hearted attempts to stop her from doing so. Mrs Kim wears a pale green dress, court shoes and a small hat and his father sports a matching tie. They look exactly as Tom knew they would, recipients of a long prayed-for miracle, the return of their prodigal son.

To his left, Susan Nicoletti is in the arms of her father, a tall grey-haired man in an even greyer pinstriped suit that extends the considerable distance from his narrow shoulders to his toes. Long, lean arms are wrapped around his daughter, lips pressed against the top of her head, tears openly rolling down his cheeks. Beside him must be Susan's sister, he can see the family resemblance, the same neat forehead and slightly pointed chin, wisps of a faintly auburn hair neither straight nor curly.

Chakotay, Ayala and a crowd of others are gathered close to the centre of the room and Tom starts towards them. Chakotay nods at something Mike says, then his hand lightly comes to rest on Seven's waist, pulling them together so that their hips touch. The two figures unexpectedly and intimately connect and Tom stops in disbelief.

Awkwardly, he retreats, needing time to process what his brain is telling him can't be true. Privately he'd always been convinced that his former First Officer only had eyes for one other and it wasn't the statuesque blonde currently on his arm. He had hoped that when they finally made it home, the ever-bright smile his Captain used to conceal enduring loneliness; might be replaced with something akin to real happiness.

Reaching the bar, he orders a whiskey - neat, not his usual drink of choice, but something that might help get his head around this. The amber liquid stings his throat, as the sight of Chakotay's hand resting on Seven's hip gives rise to a lingering sadness in his chest. Tom gives serious consideration to turning tail, returning to his wife and child by far the easier option than being any part of the horror show that tonight is threatening to become. But as he turns to leave, he glimpses a familiar figure.

Almost totally obscured by deep shadow, her back tucked up against the wall is the woman who made tonight's celebrations entirely possible. She who beat the Borg; made it back to Earth a mere thirty-six hours ago, against odds even the most dedicated of gamblers wouldn't touch. His father praised her ceaseless courage and determination, eliciting the first of many standing ovations. Admiral Brand had been unable to keep the sentiment from his speech, calling Janeway a Federation hero. He'd watched the apples of her cheeks pinking as she tipped her head to Chakotay telling the audience that it was as much his leadership as hers. This is a decidedly grey area. While Chakotay may have been their port in many a storm, in his humble opinion, there was only ever one person holding fast to the tiller.

An enduring habit of avoiding on-board socials means that he can't recall just when he last saw Kathryn Janeway in anything other than her second skin of command red, but tonight she wears a gown of deep Aegean, iridescent blue. Its neckline skims her décolletage; ruched fabric sculpting her bust before tucking in at the waist, from where it falls into a pool of inky darkness; he imagines it swirling gracefully around her feet. In the low light, lace of an indeterminate shade is scattered across her shoulders and the glint from diamond earrings peppers their corner of the room. 

A sigh escapes his lips, instantly absorbed by the heady, throbbing surround and sliding onto the stool next to hers, he orders another. She doesn't acknowledge him, instead staring over his shoulder as a peel of laughter echoes widely. Jenny Delaney is in the throes of hilarity and sensing Seven's awkwardness, Chakotay leans to whisper something into her ear. In response, her rouged lips part with a small smile of and slightly self-consciously, she tugs at the fabric of her backless dress. Rivers of sultry golden fabric fall like shimmering waterfalls over each shoulder, joining to skim an enviable derrière. The dress sits teasingly low on the hip, a carefully positioned slit highlighting her long, lean legs.

He can't bring himself to break a long-standing tradition of refusing to walk away without making sure that his Captain is all right.

And she isn't.

The hand wrapped around the glass is predictably still, but the intense interest betrays her, the blush of colour along her cheekbones evidence of being kept in the dark, literally and figuratively. Not the very last to know, that honour his, but damn close and after seven years side-by-side, that has to wound. Jenny Delaney's laughter rises again. Crew are starting to notice Voyager's newest pairing, subtly raised eyebrows, followed by pointed glances. Heads turn as fingers flutter to cover lips. Kathryn adopts a well-practised neutral expression, the only outward sign of any distress the slightest smudging of her raspberry lipstick. It blurs the corners of her mouth.

She needs to leave.

He makes the decision, morphing into her de facto protector in the absence of another. He is not about to see her reduced to the role of the other woman, the lesser woman. Sliding down to stand directly in her eye line, he replaces his glass.

"Let's go, Kathryn," he tries. Surprised by the informality, she arches an eyebrow and predictably, he returns to type, bowing slightly and proffering an overly gallant arm.

"Allow me to escort you, Ma'am?"

She closes her eyes, then smooths her dress and sliding down from her barstool, accepts the arm. Boldly he pulls her close, though she doesn't require steadying, her steps sure on the highly polished floor. Hogging the outskirts of the room, he navigates precisely. Kathryn seems to shrink, tucking herself into his shoulder and somehow they pass unnoticed through the ever-expanding crowd to emerge into the cold, brittle night air. They cross the large, open courtyard in silence, people spilling out from noisy bars and restaurants in cheerful pockets. Strings of fairy lights rocking back and forth in the late autumn breeze.

In the relative anonymity of the first side street, Kathryn missteps, her heel catching. She stumbles and he reaches out to steady her, as she rotates her ankle before gingerly replacing the strappy silver shoe on the pavement. A hand holding his shoulder, she tentatively puts her weight through the foot and his fingers fan out around her waist. The fabric of her dress is surprisingly coarse, its rigid corset contrasting with the soft, warm skin of the arm that brushes against his cheek.

He stares at the damp, ash grey slabs, slightly ashamed at the image of golden free-flowing fabric that flashes into his mind. Perhaps, Chakotay is just as fallible as the rest of mankind, swayed by the charms of a younger, beautiful woman. Simultaneously disappointed and empathetic, he allows his hands to linger as she stands independently. Kathryn doesn't look at him, instead tipping forward, until her forehead comes to rest just inside the lapels of his jacket.

He tightens the hands around her waist, trying to silently convey the unexpected, unguarded and yet entirely honest sentiments that can never pass his lips: that she's still beautiful, still desirable, still the most remarkable woman that he has ever met.

When her shivers start to register, he moves an arm to encircle her and they start to walk again. Reaching her temporary accommodation in the historic part of town he takes in the grand red brick building, stretching at least four floors deep into the dark sky. It's bay windows and ornate cornices a world apart from the modern building he has been allocated. He appreciates the coupling of the old and the new. Earth will always be home.

"... beautiful babies ..." Kathryn murmurs, her words catching in the increasing breeze.

"-Sorry?"

"Chakotay and Seven," she says with a distant smile, "they'll have beautiful babies, don't you think?"

His hand is still on her forearm, her back against the door. 

"Maybe," he relents, before she bids him goodnight and he is left standing alone.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is almost a month later when he hears that she has accepted a year-long deep Space mission to explore and chart unique astronomical phenomena in a remote section of the Gamma Quadrant. A chance to captain a ship again and with a newly minted crew to boot. Weaving his way through another throng of family and embarking crew at HQ, he finds her hip-deep in Starfleet canisters. She sees him approaching from a distance and dismisses her newly promoted First Officer. Such is his exaggerated formality that Tom almost expects the man to salute as he bows smartly and scurries in the opposite direction.

Raising her eyebrows heavenward with a shake of her head, Kathryn plants kisses on both cheeks before stepping back and sliding one hand onto her hip. Tom is instantly transported back to that cold, strange night, to the feel of his hands around her waist and to a sea change in all of their lives, that he's not entirely sure he'll ever be comfortable with.

"I hope you find what you're looking for out there, Ma'am."

An easy affection seeps into his words. She may no longer be the bright and sanguine officer he met nearly eight years ago, but her sapphire blue eyes study him just as intently as the Kathryn of old, then twinkle in recognition of his care. The fine lines around her mouth disappear as her lips quirk upwards into a smile.

"Maybe," she breezes, leaning close enough to press one palm to the centre of his chest.

"Don't worry about me Tom, I'll be just fine."

And she straightens her shoulders, steps up onto the platform and offering a brisk nod to the Transporter Chief, disappears from sight.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this came from an interview with the lovely KM in which she said (of Janeway's future) that her greatest joy was in space.  
> It was originally posted elsewhere & I entirely forgot to add it to my work here :-)  
> My thanks to the talented Caladenia for her beta.


End file.
